


Sweet as Honey

by erebones



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bees, M/M, beorn - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo hadn’t allowed himself to think of such things yet – such things like <i>after this is all over</i>. Part of him was still thinking backward, remembering the good old days of peace and plenty in the Shire. The other part, which he was loathe to acknowledge, was thinking of an eventual and inevitable end, in which the dwarves would have to look after his funeral arrangements after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet as Honey

Just when Bilbo thought he’d got his traveling companions figured out, they went and did something entirely unexpected. Like today, for instance. Most of Thorin’s company were doing the sensible thing: having a smoke and a sleep after their noon meal, kindly provided by their host’s trained dogs and ponies. Gandalf was still missing, but no one seemed concerned. Even Thorin was content to let down his guard for a little while. Personally, Bilbo thought he was still recovering from the injuries he sustained in facing down the Pale Orc. Not that he’d bring it up with Thorin, not if he wanted to keep his head. Bilbo quite liked his head where it was.

By all rights, Bilbo should be joining the others – sitting around Beorn’s massive hall smoking a pipe and having a kip. Instead, he'd allowed Bofur to drag him out into the warm sunshine to examine their host’s beehives.

“They’re _massive_ ,” the dwarf breathed, peeping at the stacks of colorful boxes from behind the neatly-clipped hedge. “Did ye ever see such drones in all your life?”

“Nope,” Bilbo replied in a clipped voice. Perhaps he can be forgiven for being a little short with Bofur. He quite liked honey, whenever he could get it – he’d particularly enjoyed the fresh supply of mead, and the scones spread with honey and clotted cream, served by Beorn’s animals – but the bees were another matter. He’s been stung once as a young lad, after rousing a wild hive with his conkers. It had not been a pleasant experience, and the sight of the enormous drones – hedge between them or not – was giving him a bit of a cold sweat.

Bofur’s wide hand came down on his shoulder unexpectedly, making him jump. “C’mon, let’s get a closer look.”

“Let’s _not_ – oh, hang it,” he grumbled, watching as Bofur snuck to the end of the hedge. The dwarf had foregone his boots for the first time since Bilbo had known him, and he was surprisingly light on his feet without the enormous things clopping and stomping all over creation. As Bilbo watched, Bofur got back down on his knees and shuffled out of sight around the hedge. There was nothing for it. Rubbing his damp palms on his trousers, Bilbo got to his feet and tip-toed after him.

“Beorn wouldn’t want us bothering his bees!” Bilbo hissed as he caught up to his friend. “Gandalf said so!”

“Who’s botherin’ ’em?” Bofur wanted to know, not bothering to keep his voice down. He sat down in the grass with a _whump_ , wriggling his toes in the grass. “We’re just watchin’.”

“But – but what if they don’t _like_ to be watched?” Gingerly, Bilbo lowered himself to the grass beside the dwarf, all without making a sound.

Bofur wheezed with barely-contained laughter. “What’s gotten into you, master burglar? I haven’t seen you this skeert since that warg nearly bit you in half back on the ol’ clifftop.”

Bilbo gave a delicate shudder. “Don’t remind me.”

 “So what’s the problem?” Bofur elbowed him gently. “Don’t have bees in your Shire?”

“Of course we do,” came the indignant reply. For a moment he almost forgot about the drones humming and bumbling several yards away. “They’re just not so blasted _big_.”

“Hmm.” There was the brisk sound of a match being struck, and then a small whiff of pipeweed. Bofur slipped his pipe between his teeth and leaned back against the bristly hedge, sucking down the smoke.

Bilbo nearly squeaked in alarm. “What are you doing?”

One dark eye rolled in his direction. “Havin’ a smoke, sir Halfling,” Bofur mumbled around his pipe stem.

“B-but what if the bees –”

Bofur sat straight up, pulling the pipe from his mouth as he stared at Bilbo in amazement. “Don’t you know nothin’ about bees? Durin above!” He blew a wobbly smoke ring right into the hobbit’s face. “Smoke puts ’em to sleep, mate. Makes ’em drowsy and slow. That’s how you collect the honey, y’ see. Blow a bunch o’ smoke over ’em and they’re tame as bunnies.”

Bilbo took another look at the drones. Then, fumbling in his haste, he produced his own pipe and packet of Southfarthing leaf. He had it lit and between his lips in a trice, ignoring Bofur’s quiet sniggering. After a few contented moments of quiet as the smoke soothed his nerves, he murmured, “How d’you know so much about bees?”

“Used to keep some.” Bofur blew a steady stream of smoke from his nostrils. It wasn’t hobbit leaf, but it didn’t smell too bad – a bit tangier than Bilbo was used to, but still rich and smooth. “Had a small colony back home. Well. Back.”

Bilbo felt a pang of guilt, remembering that night in the caves. “Honeybees?”

“Aye.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw him smile beneath his mustache. “Nice fat ones – not as fat as these, o’ course – and they made the sweetest honey you ever tasted. Fed ’em on all manner o’ flowers: giant clovers, and honeysuckle.”

“Do you suppose you’ll have them again? In – in Erebor, I mean, once it’s… yours again.”

Bofur hummed around his pipe, eyes heavy and dark as his gaze wandered and softened to somewhere far off, somewhere Bilbo couldn’t see. “That would be nice. Have to get there first, though.” He didn’t mention any dragon, but they were both thinking it.

“I bet you’ll have the nicest bees east of the Greenwood,” Bilbo said stoutly. He refused to call it by its new name, not yet.

The dwarf chuckled, raspy with smoke. “Mebbe so.” Another elbow in the side, this one even gentler than before. It pressed briefly against his ribs and grew soft, not quite moving away. “You’ll have to come visit, aye? Come an’ try my honey.”

Bilbo grinned in spite of himself. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of such things yet – such things like _after this is all over_. Part of him was still thinking backward, remembering the good old days of peace and plenty in the Shire: before any wizard came wandering past Bag End, before any dwarves came waving adventure and danger under his nose. The other part, which he was loathe to acknowledge, was thinking of an eventual and inevitable end, in which the dwarves would have to look after his funeral arrangements after all.

“Bilbo?”

The hobbit startled, looking over at Bofur. “Hmm?”

Bofur scanned his face, dark eyes shrewd beneath darker brows, and Bilbo gave a faint shudder as he saw some of his own thoughts reflected on Bofur’s face.

“Hey, there. We’re not dead yet, are we?” The dwarf smiled faintly, breaking the gloom but not the heavy, reflective quiet that had settled over them. “Quite the opposite, in fact.” He gestured with his pipe, and Bilbo had to smile back.

“I will.”

“You will what?”

“Come visit, and try your honey. Be warned, I was raised on Shire honey. Our bees are fed on apple blossoms and strawberry flowers.”

Bofur scoffed, blowing smoke into Bilbo’s face. “Dwarfish honey, my friend, is not somethin’ to be sneezed at.” He drew in a deep lungful through his pipe and blew it out in a thin stream between his teeth, head tipped skyward.

Bilbo watched him, feeling strangely warm and easy as they sat there in the sun. Perhaps it was a foolish thing to daydream of, but surely there wasn’t any harm in it – a golden dream-like vision of the future, with clover-covered slopes where once there was only fire-scorched earth, all humming pleasantly with honeybees.

“I hope –” he began, and stopped, rather abruptly. Bofur tipped his head and nodded.

“So do I.” The dwarf gave a crooked smile and reached over, fingers tangling in Bilbo’s curls. His stomach dropped – perhaps he’d had too much pipeweed? – and he found himself leaning forward as if pulled by an invisible cord, tipping until his shoulder was snug against Bofur’s jerkin and their pipes clacked together. With patient fingers, Bofur plucked their pipes free, setting them to smolder against the grass, and brought their mouths together.

 _Definitely too much pipeweed_ , Bilbo mused fuzzily, and found he couldn’t bring himself to care. Bofur smelled pleasantly of leather and tobacco-smoke this close, and his skin was warm and inviting. One side of his droopy mustache tickled Bilbo’s chin, and when the hobbit lifted a hand to brush it away, he simply left it there, spreading his fingers against Bofur’s lightly stubbled cheek.

Bilbo had kissed plenty of hobbit lasses in his time, and even a few lads, but none of them quite compared to kissing Bofur. For one, the dwarf was neither giggly nor stiff as a board, and he was quite a bit… well… _firmer_. His lips were slightly rough from exposure, but Bilbo found the texture pleasant – and when their mouths separated and came back together for a fresh angle, the slight dampness made them softer and more manageable. Bilbo pushed forward with a faint eager noise, chasing the source of the damp.

Perhaps it was the pipeweed, or perhaps it was more, but Bofur was entirely receptive. Bilbo’s sense of time deserted him as the dwarf’s strong arm tightened around him and his thick, calloused fingers combed through Bilbo’s disordered curls. Heat prickled at the back of his neck and down his spine as each explored the other’s mouth thoroughly, and when they finally separated he was embarrassed to find himself in quite a state: hair every which way, face flushed and breath fast, and his trousers growing rather snug in a difficult place.

“Well that’s gratifying,” Bofur murmured, eyes wandering down to Bilbo’s lap.

“I-I’m sorry,” Bilbo stammered, “it-it’s just been a r-rather long time and –”

“Hush.” One blunt finger came to rest against his lips, and Bilbo’s voice died in his throat. “Just relax, for half a moment.” Bofur held his eyes, and Bilbo swallowed, lips moving against that finger as he nodded. The dwarf’s eyes twinkled mischievously, and Bilbo had just enough time to wonder what he was getting himself into before Bofur leaned forward and rubbed his whiskery face against Bilbo’s neck.

He let out a yelp, quickly stifled as Bofur employed his mouth to kissing hot and wet down Bilbo’s throat. The hobbit snatched off Bofur’s hat and sank his fingers into the thick brown hair, tangling in the braids as he quivered at the sweet suction, interspersed with hints of teeth.

“What if someone sees?” he whispered, trying to cling to his last shred of sanity.

“They won’t,” Bofur murmured in reply, fingers already busy at Bilbo’s shirt buttons. One by one they slipped free, and he slumped to the ground as calloused hands explored the soft hair curling on his chest, feeling as if he were melting. “They’re takin’ their afternoon snooze. We won’t be interrupted.”

The last of his reserve fell away, and Bilbo grabbed him by the collar, yanking him down for another kiss. He nipped with his teeth, tasting Bofur’s smoky breath, and trembled as the dwarf followed the trail of honey-colored hair down to the laces on his breeches.

“Wait! Wait, just a moment.” Panting, he scrambled into a sitting position and began tugging uselessly at Bofur’s clothing. “How do you get these blasted things off?”

The dwarf chuckled deep in his throat and began pulling at buttons and laces. The belt went first, tossed into an untidy coil on the grass, followed by his outer jerkin, his tunic, and his shirt. Like many of the others he had foregone longjohns with the warmer weather, and so this left him bare above the waist. He was fitter than Bilbo would have imagined – all the dwarves layered their clothing, making them appear even  heftier than they already were – and his skin was a deep golden tan, pleasantly furred with black hair over his chest and down his belly to disappear into his trousers.

Bilbo realized he was staring and licked his lips, turning bright pink. Bofur laughed again, low and growly in a way that tingled all the way down to Bilbo’s toes, and he leaned down, strong arms braced against the ground to either side of Bilbo’s head as he traced his nose down the center of his chest. “Like what you see then, Halfling?”

“Very much,” Bilbo admitted, husky with embarrassment as he fingered the snug place between Bofur’s trouser edge and the hot skin of his stomach. Perhaps he wasn’t of the line of Durin, but Bofur could hold his own in the looks department. “Are you going to keep going?”

“Mmm.” He pressed his lips to Bilbo’s chest, whiskers prickling against the soft skin. “Thought I’d keep th’ suspense up, aye?”

“Hang – your – suspense!” Bilbo grunted, wriggling until he was free of his trousers. Then he lay there on the grass, breath coming in short huffs as Bofur took his sweet time, dragging kisses down his ribs, along the slight curve of his belly, and back up to his mouth until Bilbo was nearly senseless with the soaking pleasure of it.

“Please… oh please, Bofur – oh!” He jerked as Bofur finally took his hips in a firm grip, fingers tight enough to bruise, and lowered his head to the straining curve of Bilbo’s erection. He quivered like a pinned insect, sucking his own fingers into his mouth to keep quiet as the dwarf slowly, slowly painted a thick line with the flat of his tongue from root to tip. With the other hand he patted around until he found Bofur’s cheek, bringing the dwarf’s dark eyes to his. “If you don’t- don’t want me going off any second, you… you should probably stop.”

“ _Stop_?” Bofur echoed, and Bilbo was gratified to hear his voice crack neatly down the center. “Master burglar, I’m just getting _started_.” With that he drew Bilbo into his mouth and sucked him down, nose buried in the hobbit’s nest of golden-brown curls.

Bilbo’s back arched as his pleasure spiked, and he came, clutching at the grass so hard he had dirt beneath his fingernails for a week after. But Bofur wasn’t done yet, not by half. Seemingly unconcerned by his own snug trousers, still tightly fastened, he pulled off and licked his lips, thumb and forefinger coming up to smooth down his drooping mustache. “Haven’t got much stamina, have you, Halfling?”

Bilbo sighed heavily, head still swirling pleasantly with afterglow. “Told you, ’s been a long time.”

In fact, it had been a long time since he’d even taken his own pleasure. Being on the road with thirteen dwarves and an occasional wizard made it hard to find any form of release, with or without a partner, and this was the first orgasm he’d had since they left Rivendell. It seemed like forever ago.

As if in a dream, Bilbo roused himself to action and reached for Bofur’s trousers. But his hands were enfolded in larger, calloused palms, and the dwarf lay down beside him in the grass. “I can wait.”

“But why?” Bilbo protested, shifting to look him in the eye. It seemed natural for their legs to tangle together, hairy shins catching on thickly calloused soles.

Bofur’s dark eyes twinkled with laughter. “Do you doubt my ability to bring you to pleasure a second time?”

“I… oh.” He hadn’t thought of that. “Are you really?”

“I’m certainly goin’ to try.” One fingertip followed the curve of Bilbo’s cheek and down, hooking in the open collar of his shirt. “In a few minutes. Need to give m’self some breathing space, else I’ll finish far too fast. Have to make my ancestors proud.”

Bilbo choked, some awkward cross between a laugh and a splutter, and Bofur covered his mouth with a smiling kiss.

The warm sun and the fragrant smell of crushed grass were making Bilbo very drowsy, but Bofur’s whiskery, smoke-flavored kisses tempted him back from the edge of sleep. Against his hip, the dwarf’s interest waned and waxed again and Bilbo coaxed him onto his back this time. Perched astride Bofur’s hips, he spread eager fingers over the warm skin and explored it like a map, finding all the places that made his partner groan and curse.

“By Aulë’s beard, Halfling, get on with it!” Bofur gasped at long last, though he was kind enough not to buck Bilbo off and have his way with him, which he very well could have done.

Taking pity on him, Bilbo undid the dwarf’s trousers and got his hand inside. He paused, feeling the hot skin throb against his palm. “You’re quite… well-endowed, Master Dwarf.”

Bofur smirked. “Nervous?”

“Hardly,” Bilbo sniffed, though he privately decided he wouldn’t be returning quite the same favor. Bofur may have be talented at that particular activity, but Bilbo hadn’t had much practice, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. Instead he worked Bofur’s trousers down his hips and resettled himself, sighing in pleasure as they came flush together in just the right way.

“Aye, that’s the thing,” Bofur murmured, stroking up and down the subtle curve of Bilbo’s spine. His hand was soft and slow, callouses dragging at the smoother skin, and gradually Bilbo was coaxed into an easy back-and-forth to match. The burn was sweeter this time, less rushed, and he braced his hands on Bofur’s broad chest as he rode him leisurely. He bit his lower lip in concentration, eyes closed as he concentrated on the feel of skin on skin and the slight breeze whispering in his hair.

He was so caught up that he was startled when Bofur tensed between his thighs, and everything grew warm and slick between them. Bilbo looked down to see the dwarf grinning sheepishly. “Sorry. Closer than I thought.”

Bilbo shook his head, suddenly overtaken with new drive. “’S fine.” He bent forward until he was enfolded in Bofur’s arms and gasped against his neck, chasing after his release. Bofur gripped him tight, and Bilbo whimpered as he crested the wave and crashed down a second time, shaking to pieces in a snug embrace.

When he came back to himself, Bilbo was curled on his side in the grass in the shadow of the hedge. At his back, Bofur’s solid weight matched Bilbo’s like two spoons in a drawer, with one heavy arm draped over his waist. He shifted slightly, making a sleepy waking-up noise, and Bofur’s arm tightened.

“Welcome back, Master Baggins,” he murmured into the back of Bilbo’s neck. The hobbit shivered slightly, arching back against him. They seemed to be a little cleaner than he remembered. But they were still naked, and the sun was beginning to go down, leaving them cool in the hedge’s shade.

“We should get back,” Bilbo croaked, stretching out sore limbs. He could hear the bees behind them, still droning away, but there was no accompanying prickle of fear with Bofur holding him close.

The dwarf sighed, fingers dragging warm and firm against Bilbo’s belly. “Aye, I s’pose the others will be missing us.” He planted a lingering kiss on Bilbo’s nape and withdrew.

With a groan, Bilbo sat up and redressed himself, then sat and watched Bofur do the same, taking his time with each layer and button and loop. It was soothing to watch, if a bit sad. If Bilbo could have his way, he would lay Bofur out on his four-poster bed at Bag End, and they would spend the night there without any clothing at all, and with no bothersome dwarves to pester them.

“You look put out,” Bofur remarked, settling his hat on top of his head. It covered his sex-rumpled hair admirably, and Bilbo began patting down his own hair worriedly.

“I just wish… we had more time.”

Bofur nodded slowly, and offered a hand. When he pulled the hobbit to his feet, he crushed him in his arms, bewhiskered mouth warm at Bilbo’s temple. “I know, lad. But we’ll have time. Someday. Just think on the bees, and wait patiently.”


End file.
